Nearly two years ago, Mesa State made headlines for all the wrong reasons.

In late September 2008, Trevor Wikre, a lineman for our football team, dislocated his pinky on his right hand and was forced to ask himself a question: pinky or no pinky? Long story short, Wikre said “adios” to the digit to get back on the field for his senior season and the decision garnered attention from media all over the country, including ESPN and Sports Illustrated.

To be clear, I never met Wikre and, despite covering sports for multiple newspapers in this area, I have never watched enough of our football team to get a good grasp on the program. Like many people, I couldn’t help but question his decision. Sure, he got a few more months of football, but what part of a person would be able to justify getting rid of a body part simply to play a few more games?

I didn’t get it and part of me figured that I never would.

Flash forward to late 2009. I faced a pathetic realization— despite being 21 and presumably in the peak of my life, my 58 year-old father, a lifelong runner, had just achieved a dream by jogging the five boroughs of the New York City Marathon. I would have gotten winded running around the block. Seriously.

In that realization, I set a goal to do a half-marathon sometime in 2010. At 13.1 miles, the distance was attainable, yet would force me to push myself beyond anything I’d ever done. Needless to say, it did.

Over nine months, I learned more about my body than I would care to. Playing games like “How far can I run in one hour after eating a plate of fettuccine alfredo?” and, “Dear God, why did I drink so much last night?” weren’t always fun experiences. My feet would get blistered, my muscles tired, and my brain would be praying for shade. But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking about the ultimate goal— the Disneyland half marathon in Anaheim, Calif.

Last weekend, I woke up in Anaheim, still unsure of my preparation for the race. Was a ten-mile run several weeks before going to be good enough? At least I had the transition to sea level on my side. But at 5:30 a.m., when I split apart from my parents into our separate starting groups, I was as ready as I was going to be.

In the moments leading up to the race, I was scared. I’d spent nine months of my life building up to that starting line. If I didn’t leave with a finisher’s medal, how would I look in the mirror knowing that I wasted that much time? How would I feel knowing that I let myself prepare for that opportunity only to let myself down? The mere thought of failure ate me alive at that starting line.

And in that moment, it became clear to me, after all these years of writing about sports, just why athletes do what they do. It’s for that moment of triumph.

Whether it’s getting a key sack on third down, hitting a walk-off home run, or simply crossing the finish line, it’s about the payoff to the months, if not years, of work that an athlete puts in on treadmills, in weight rooms or outside.

It’s about being able to take in a moment that can never be replicated, where even if nobody notices, you know you left it all out there and gave it everything you had. You finished what few would even start.

That’s why so many athletes around here are willing to make those sacrifices. It’s why sitting in class, you could be right next to a person covered in ice packs. To you, they may look odd, and they are very likely sore, but to them, it’s worth it.

As I entered onto the warning track at Angel Stadium, which served as the majority of mile nine, I stopped for a moment and took it all in. I was tired, legs sore, and had more sweat on my body than humanly possible, but I was going to finish that damn race. And I did.